


The Ox in the Mire

by lonely_lovebird



Category: James Bond (Craig movies), Sherlock (TV), Skyfall (2012) - Fandom
Genre: Alec Trevelyan is not dead or a bad guy, Alternate Universe - Post Reichenbach, Big Brother Mycroft, Developing Relationship, Multi, Q is a Holmes, Sebastian Moran is full of righteous fury, for once it's not MI6's fault
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-01-29
Updated: 2015-12-25
Packaged: 2018-01-10 11:31:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,785
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1159193
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lonely_lovebird/pseuds/lonely_lovebird
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Q is fine with being the Holmes in the shadows - until the shadows betray him. His tentative relationship with James Bond doesn't need vengeful assassins messing things up.</p><p>But of course the people he needs to worry the most about are his own brothers.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Ingran Holmes

As the newly appointed head of Q Branch, the Quartermaster had a lot of catching up to do. Once the throws of the Silva Crisis had finished and Bond's gear had been returned in a mangled pile of wires and plastic, Q had retreated to his shiny new office in the bunker to read up on the history of the Double-Oh's he currently supplied with his toys.

Reading their previous case files was illuminating in many ways. It showed their strengths with certain weapons and styles of martial arts, their weaknesses with protecting anything on their person, and what needed improvement in Q-Branch and their efficiency.

All of the files through 006 were fairly standard, other than the glaring realization that Q-Branch before Q was a large puddle of piss when it came to being useful in a Double-Oh's on-the-job assistance.

Then he reached 007's files.

Despite their recent adventures, Q was still wary of James Bond and his proclivity for putting himself in danger. As he browsed the first file, it became apparent that James Bond was only alive because of sheer dumb luck and his good looks. (No thanks to Q-Branch, really were these people even trained in computer sciences?!)

The subsequent files were just as bad, if not worse.

Throwing his slim e-reader onto his desk, Q felt himself fuming. Without a seconds hesitation he flung himself from his chair and stormed into the crisp white light of Q-Branch. Most of the techs were working diligently on their desktops, drawing up new plans or finishing up their reports of the Silva incident.

It was a calming sight.

The techs in front of him were hand picked after the terrorist attack on MI6, when the other techs were killed or severely injured. They had all worked with Q when he was a programmer on the bottom rung and as he worked his way up to his position as R, the right hand of the Quartermaster.

Upon inheriting the duties of Quartermaster and a nearly empty Q-Branch, Q had submitted their names post-haste.

Though his surface rage had been quelled, Q still found a deep burning sensation at the bottom of his ribcage from the things he had read in 007's file. Things about Vesper Lynd and Quantum. Things he dimly recalled from his days as a bottom feeding programmer at MI6.

He couldn't fathom how James Bond had the strength of mind and body to continue on after those events, and even the recent ones.

Q was busy musing on the emotional state of the Double-Oh when the man in question appeared at the doors of Q-Branch, dressed impeccably as usual, and wearing an expression that usually meant there was a funeral in someone's future.

Bond's eyes found Q and Q's stomach plummeted. The agent strode quickly across the floor to his Quartermaster, stopping only so far as to give them breathing room but still too close to be considered appropriate.

"Q."

It wasn't a question. It wasn't an accusation. It was a statement. Q was baffled.

"007," he responded in kind.

"Why was I just informed you were reading over my mission history without my express permission?"

Ah, Q thought to himself. There's the tick. 007 didn't technically need to give Q permission to read his mission reports, as Q outranked him, but it was considered impolite at best if another MI6 employee read your files without first informing you.

"Given my need to understand how you function in the field, 007, I should have assumed my next steps were logical."

The icy blue of Bond's eyes flared with a cold fury that chilled Q to his core. "Damn logic, Q, there are things in those files I don't need brought up."

Q felt a peculiar itch at the base of his skull. It was a feeling that tended to plague him when his instincts were telling him that something wasn't quite right. There was something off. Everything in a mission record was public to MI6 higher-ups, so 007 shouldn't have had a reason to hide. Then again, perhaps "public"was also a curse for those few agents who made mistakes in the field.

Young, impressionable, new Double-Oh's with their shiny escort partners who betray them.

"Mission history is available to all Branch Directors in MI6, Bond. I can't see why myself reading your files should be considered any different from Mallory, or Tanner, or even Moneypenny." Bond, if possible, had inched even closer. Q continued, pressing through the cloud of negative feelings shrouding the pair.

"If this is about your mistake in Montenegro with Vesper -"

As if burned, Bond jumped back, eyes narrowed.

"Don't," he growled.

Q took a deep breath. "My apologies 007." This was a lie. He wasn't sorry in the slightest. "If my knowledge gained through your mission reports makes you uncomfortable," or slightly malicious, "I shall cease all further readings."

The light in Bond's eyes never wavered but his body language relaxed and he adjusted his suit jacket. "See that you do."

And without another word he turned on his heel and strode from Q-Branch, the eyes of every person in the room following him with caution.

This was a puzzle. Q had never been good at puzzles. They were his brother's game. He liked computers and wires and strings of numbers. People were riddles that couldn't be broken like a complex string of algorithms. Rolling his shoulders, Q straightened his royal blue cardigan and retreated back to his office and his still warm cup of Earl Grey.

The e-reader still lay haphazardly across his desk.

With a sigh, Q pressed a button on his desk and heard a familiar buzz. After several tense seconds a warm honeyed voice answered.

"What can I do for you, Q?"

Q smiled despite himself.

"Moneypenny, who informed Bond I was reading up on him?"

There was a longer pause than necessary and Q had his answer. Eve Moneypenny carried the most unfortunate torch for James Bond that she had been carrying since her days in the field. She knew his dark secrets and knew he liked to keep them that way.

"I'm sorry Q, did he throw a fit?" She did sound truly remorseful.

"Only when I mentioned Montenegro."

There was a crackle in the speakers as she sighed. "He doesn't want you to see that, Q."

This news was what derailed Q's train of thought. Bond didn't want his Quartermaster to see his dark history so that perhaps he could aid in the prevention of a repeat? It was folly, Q thought, to think yourself above the need for help.

"I'm not worthy to know the secrets of the great James Bond?" Q spat out bitterly.

"No!" Moneypenny exclaimed quickly. "No, Q, God, you don't even get it, do you?" 

She sounded as if she was in great despair. Q didn't understand why.

"No, I understand, Eve." He was quiet. He understood perfectly. "Thank you." He heard her strangled protest only briefly before he terminated the call. He sat back in his chair full of remorse and anger and emotions he didn't quite understand.

He'd never dealt with emotions before. He'd never had a reason to confront them or catalogue them or find a cure. He was too much like his oldest brother, finding emotions to be a nuisance so he simply ignored them. However he was like the middle child of his family - he could try to ignore his emotions but it was of little to no avail.

He and Sherlock felt emotions the strongest.

With that sudden thought, Q slid his mobile from his trouser pocket and slid it onto the table.

Would Sherlock even answer him? The thought was ludicrous. After he had joined MI6, Sherlock had disowned him in a rather dramatic fashion, annoyed that his younger brother was following in the footsteps of his older brother.

"Two Holmes' in the British Government, my God what will become of us?" he had barked sarcastically. He'd been trying to break his heroin addiction, which might have added to the usual vinegar that laced every word to come out of Sherlock Holmes' mouth.

Mycroft had simply tutted at Sherlock and congratulated Q.

Congratulated him for being practically Shanghai'd into service because he was too stupid, hacking the MI6 servers on a dare, then managing to get caught.

He was a foolish teenager. Not much had changed.

Still.

Q fiddled with the mobile, spinning it idly on his desk. It might help. It couldn't hurt either way. Bond was already furious at him and Moneypenny had confirmed his fears. Sherlock had a live-in boyfriend now from what Q had heard.

He must have learned something about normal people.

**Can you help me? -QH**

He sent the short but easily understood message quickly before he could change his mind. In no time at all his mobile buzzed with a response.

**No. Ask Mycroft. -SH**

Q grit his teeth in frustration.

**Mycroft doesn't understand people. You do. -QH**

Mycroft understood people when it came to politics and high stakes poker, which were essentially the same thing. But in this situation, neither would be adequate experience to assist in giving advice.

**No I can't help you understand your double-oh. -SH**

**Who said anything about a double-oh? -QH**

**It's obvious. -SH**

The phone rang. Surprised, Q picked up to the sound of bickering on the other line.

"No I bloody will not! You either text him yourself or talk to him on the phone!"

Q smiled. Sherlock hated explaining himself over text. He obviously had thrown the phone at John before finishing his full explanation and told John to finish typing. John was terrible at typing.

"Hello John," Q said amicably. He could hear John sigh.

"You lot and your texting, I swear. Now just talk it out like normal human beings for once."

There was a strangled yell in the background.

"I don't need to talk to Ingran like a normal human being!" Q's smile faded at the sound of his brother. Sherlock sounded hoarse and irritated. Q could very well imagine the sight of him sprawled across the Baker Street flat's couch, fingers steepled together as he pointedly refused to look at John or the mobile.

"Sorry about that, but er, if you have any questions about people I hope you could consider me a good source of information," John said in hushed tones. And really, Q knew how sweet John Watson was to his brother, but to extend the same courtesy to the mysterious brother he'd never even met was truly beyond the call of duty.

He could see why Sherlock kept him.

"Thank you, Dr. Watson," Q said resignedly. "If anything more specific comes to mind I'll give you a ring instead."

"Right, well, cheers," was all John replied before Q hung up.

Q tapped his fingers absently over and over, his index finger barely tapping the black screen of his personal mobile. He sat rigidly straight in his chair while his brain began calculating the percentages of a well timed phone call to his oldest brother - the British Government.

Most scenarios ended in his dismissal from MI6 where he would be rushed straight into Mycroft's personal service. The other slightly more positive scenarios ended with James Bond kidnapped (with express permission from Mallory - _M_ , pardon) and threatened into submissive respect for the new Quartermaster.

No, calling Mycroft would have to be used only in extreme emergency.

Q rang Moneypenny again.

"Yes, Q?" her voice held all the lilting smugness of someone who knew exactly what cards her opponent was holding. Q took a deep breath.

"Moneypenny," he said trying to sound casual. Within seconds he knew she would see right through his ruse.

"This is about Bond, isn't it?" Her could hear the uptick of a smile in her question. "Well, Q, I hate to inform you, but I'm not the expert on all things James Bond. You could try phoning Alec if you felt brave, or even M, but all I can do is help you kill him." Q narrowed his eyes at her teasing tone. "After all, it's the only thing I'm good at."

She hung up.

Eve Moneypenny hung up on Q and for once he was irritated.

Ingran Holmes disliked being told "No".

.

Of his three brothers, Ingran Holmes had been blessed with the least obtrusive name. As the youngest he was keenly placed to hide in the shadows, out of his brother's way and the limelight the family's genius brought.

It also led to slight favoritism from his parents.

Of course, Mr. and Mrs. Holmes were proud of their oldest boys, and enjoyed Mycroft and his need to please, and loved Sherlock's curious nature, Ingran was something akin to their own interests and was the easiest to understand.

Mycroft enjoyed politics and power plays. Mr. Holmes wasn't fond of anything less than straightforward which caused him to clash with his son once Mycroft had moved into position to become the most powerful player in British Politics.

Sherlock enjoyed being contrary, the science of deduction and reasoning, while Mrs. Holmes was far more emotional and wanted her sons to follow not only their heads but their hearts - something that was always difficult for Sherlock.

"Siger," Ingran had heard his mother saying to his father one day, "I don't know what I will do with these boys." Her tone was distressed. "Of all three, Ingran is the closest to normal, but he clams up in his shell whenever Mycroft or Sherlock get involved!"

In this singular effort, Ingran had succeeded over his brothers. He was the one who could pretend to be like everyone else with ease. He hid his deficiency in understanding others by copying their mannerisms and speech. He cleverly kept his emotional problems under wraps by mimicking others reactions that were deemed appropriate.

So perhaps Ingran was the greatest failure of all the Holmes brothers, because instead of embracing his uniqueness, he hid it away until everyone was convinced he was just like them, never allowing room for personal growth or the education of others.

Maybe, he considered now as he watched 007's tracking dot against a map, that was why James Bond was so furious with him. Perhaps he had acted as he had deemed acceptable but was rude by the standards of his peers.

Or maybe Q was overthinking.

"Left, 007, I said _left_!" he snapped into his intercom.

"Maybe you should try swinging like Tarzan across a bazaar and see how easy it is to pick directions," 007 hissed back before the sound of gunfire snapped in the distance. His tracker raced down the alley Q had pinpointed to the left, finally.

Several key taps later, Q found a decent entry point to the pickup location. Without the papers Bond was about to secure, the entire European Union would collapse. (And while Q was certain that would be entirely to Mycroft's benefit, he didn't feel the need to disappoint M or allow Bond a failure to his record).

"007, take the first right, in 3.5 meters, then immediately take another right up the stairwell. It will take you directly to the floor where Baryshnikov has stashed the papers."

Bond's exhausted panting came on the speaker followed by the trademark wit. "You make it sound so easy," he muttered before bounding up the stairs. The flat was empty as he burst through the door.

"Q, the entire room is empty," he said deadpanned.

"Good," Q replied. "Get the papers and report to the extraction team."

"No," Bond said slightly more acidic, "I mean the room is empty. Desolate. Barren. No furniture or light fixtures - nothing, Q."

Q furrowed his brow. He tapped his computer, switching to a satellite view he hijacked from the Americans. They would never even notice. At least, not for another thirteen minutes.

The satellite feed of Bond filled the large screen at the front of Q Branch. It was a difficult angle, the window arch was blocking most of his view, but Q could see that Bond was correct - the room was nothing but four walls and a window made out of mud brick - standard middle eastern materials.

"Trapdoor?" Q spit out quickly. "Secret wall compartment?" He tried to angle the view with the satellite. Eleven minutes. If he tried repositioning the entire satellite, the American's would notice in less than seven minutes.

He needed some kind of view that would let him see into the walls. He tapped quickly, hacking further into the satellite's networking. He found a string of unfinished code for an application similar to x-ray that would allow him to see into the room.

"Q, what do I do?" Bond asked, anxiety pumping through his voice.

"Just one moment," Q muttered breathlessly as he began finishing the code. Activating the unfinished coding module (for free and for the Americans) would grant him the access he wanted, but also leave a perfect spy satellite in the hands of the Americans along with shaving his undetected time to three minutes.

Three minutes to scan the room and extricate himself from what could potentially become a sticky international situation.

"I don't have a moment, if you don't remember the people with large guns shooting at me," Bond muttered as he traced his hands along the wall.

He finished the code with a flourish and activated the new subroutine in the American satellite. The imaging on the screen became a map of black and white blobs, one of which was fairly James Bond shaped and moving, and the other a stationary rectangle directly above the Bond shaped blob's head.

"Bond, the ceiling!" Q exclaimed before hastily making a digital retreat before the American's detected the intruding MI6 system. He was unable to see 007 open the hidden door in the roof and remove the cache of papers but he heard the sounds of straining from the comm and shuffle of papers.

"Target acquired," Bond said quickly as Q relied once more on the digital map to track the agents progress. "Immediate evacuation requested."

Two gunshots followed by several yells and the fire from a semi-automatic weapon followed.

"I'm on the roof - get me out of here, Q!"

Q grinned, hacking his way back into CCTVs and other remote devices. "My pleasure," he said simply before guiding James Bond, across the rooftops of the Tehran Grand Bazaar, towards his ride back to London.

Ingran Holmes may have been terrible with people, but he was so very good with machines.

.

With the papers retrieved and Bond debriefed, and no other life or death missions occurring, Q was finally allowed to return to his flat, to have dinner, a shower, and possibly ward off any unwanted attention from either of his brothers.

He was stopped on his exit from Q Branch by a very disgruntled and worn looking 007 who held out his scuffed and dirty Walther PPK wordlessly. Q stopped. Since the Silva Crisis, Q had refused to give James Bond any toys fancier than a standard pistol and a radio. It was only on the mission to Iran that he had placed a second palm imprinted PPK in Bond's hands and repeated his request to have it returned.

"Thanks," Bond said quietly. "It really saved me the trouble of being shot again." Q took the pistol gingerly to examine it. Most of the internal firing mechanisms were covered in dust and contained small particles of desert sand, but the handle (the single most expensive part - the one coded to 007's palm print alone) was salvageable.

Q quirked a small smile. "Well done, 007," he said. "Finally a weapon returned in one piece."

Bond pulled a wane smile on his Quartermaster before departing without another word. Strange, Q thought to himself, he had been expecting a few barbs of trademark wit from the Double-Oh agent. Instead he was left with an aching silence and a Walther PPK/S 9mm Short.

After several long moments in the silence, Q woke as if from a trance. He moved back into the deserted Q branch and deposited Bond's Walther in a drawer full of other returned gadgets in need of repair. 005's Smith and Wesson M&P.40 with a jammed firing mechanism was lying next to 009's cracked Sig Sauer P250 9mm. The Walther was hardly an inconvenience.

Closing the drawer, Q looked up into the dimly lit Q Branch, heart hammering in his chest. There was movement from the corner of his eye. It couldn't be a threat, he tried to rationalize. They were in the depths of the underground catacombs of Churchill's Bunker - the incredibly secure emergency station for MI6 in the case where Vauxhall was compromised.

"Hello?" he called to the blackness, vainly hoping it was a technician who had forgotten their personal effects. He wasn't, however, stupid.

As his hand reached back down to the drawer of damaged though still mostly operational pistols, a hand grabbed him from behind roughly and a cloth was shoved over his nose and mouth. The familiar sickly-sweet scent of chloroform washed over him.

His last conscious thought was surprisingly calm given the panic that was taking over his body. Despite how his instincts were telling him to be afraid, his mind it seemed would not comply.

 _Well,_ he thought sarcastically, _I hope the rescue team isn't as useless as the security department._

He slipped into the cool silken embrace of unconsciousness.


	2. Man in the Mysterious Suit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Merry Christmas! She's back! Poor Q always seems to end up unconscious. I promise more conscious Q next chapter!

It just goes to show that when the world isn't ending and all the Double-Oh's are at home, the most trouble seems to happen, James Bond thinks as he rolls over in his spacious bed in his empty apartment to let his fingers scramble for his loudly ringing mobile.

There's soft light filtering under the cracks of his black-out curtains so it can't be later than 07:30, he considers before checking the caller ID (Moneypenny's desk extension) and answering with a brusque - "'Lo."

"007," she says - the air of formality snapping Bond to alertness, "Report to M immediately, we have a hostage situation."

Bond immediately runs through the list of agents he knows well enough - Alec is on medical leave to his home in Kensington, Jules, 008, is still in medical, and Rebekah, 002, just came back from a mission to Moscow. As far as he's aware the rest of the Double-Oh's are not stationed in the field.

"Ten minutes," is all he says before hanging up. A hostage situation with no Double-Oh's in the field could only mean one thing - a domestic crisis had once again arisen in the heart of James Bond's country.

He only hoped that it wouldn't involve any more bombs in the middle of London.

\---

He strode into Mallory's office eleven minutes after his phone call with Eve. It paid to have to get a new flat every so often - he could relocate to areas closer to MI6 headquarters with ease. And MI6 always footed the moving bill.

Mallory was standing with his back to the doors, looking out the tall windows hands clasped behind his back. The tension in him was evident in the lines of his shoulders, stiff and defeated all at the same time.

When the door closed behind Bond, he turned.

"I was afraid this might happen before we could move back into Vauxhall," he said shortly, flopping a folder onto his desk. Tanner was at his side with a tablet, tapping away rapidly, face scrunched in concentration.

Bond didn't speak, knowing that Mallory was taking few precious seconds to find the words. Hostage situations meant that time was of the essence, but they also required a delicate hand or it could blow up in their faces. There were few people that MI6 was set to bring back in the case of a hostage crisis, and Bond was almost certain he wasn't one of them.

"During the morning review of the security footage, one of our staff members discovered that Q was abducted from his office last night at around 23:45 - shortly after speaking to you."

If anything, those hadn't been the words James had been expecting to come from Mallory's mouth. James felt like he'd had a brick dropped into his stomach. He kept his composure tight and clean but inwardly was reeling. He'd returned his Walther to Q before returning to his flat. By the time that Q was abducted, he would have barely left the bunker.

"Sir," was the final response Bond offered. It was open ended - tell me what to do, give me the mission parameters, whatever you ask I'll comply - and it was the only thing he could think to say as he drowned in the guilt.

How could he have not seen the threat that waited the Quartermaster?

"We have Q Branch working on decrypting the message left on Q's desk by his abductor, and facial recognition working on what little footage we have of him between his capture of the Quartermaster and his escape." Mallory motioned to Tanner who turned the tablet around and showed Bond the fuzzy grey and white image of a man, half covered in shadow.

Bond took it carefully, eyes never leaving the frozen image. It was zoomed in but Bond could tell immediately it was from Q's office. From what he could see, the man was tall and stocky - square jawed and fit. The ghost of a five o'clock shadow lingered over the one visible side of his face.

Bond couldn't place his face but there was something distressingly familiar about the man.

"Are we awaiting a ransom call or should I presume the protocol following a compromised agent are to be taken care of?" Bond asked, passing the tablet back to Tanner.

Mallory opened his mouth to answer but the door slammed open with a mighty bang, startling all three occupants as the vain protesting of Moneypenny wafted to their ears.

"No, you can't - sir! This meeting is of national security!" Eve sounded distressed even as the man, tall, slightly balding, dressed impeccably in a bespoke Gieves & Hawkes and carrying a black umbrella, strode into their midst.

Tanner looked scandalized. "Who are you? This is a highly classified meeting of national security-," he snapped, flustered.  The man waved his umbrella effectively silencing Tanner who stared open mouthed in shock.

"Yes, yes, national security - that's all well and good, but I'd like to know exactly what your plan is to return the Quartermaster to the safe enfolds of the British Empire," he said with a well pronounced air of aloofness that only his manner betrayed. "My employer has seen fit to let me take over the matter at hand and work with MI6 on the retrieval of -," he paused then, and Bond was almost certain that he knew Q on a personal level.

"-your Quartermaster."

Tanner looked as if someone had spit in his tea. It was Mallory who broke the uncomfortable silence in the wake of the interruption.

"Mister Holmes, I'm certain that we can handle this matter internally." Mallory sounded cold. It tipped Bond immediately off to their relationship - Mallory didn't like this Holmes, and it was likely due to Holmes' authority over him (and his ability to barge in and demand to be in charge when convenient).

A lithe brunette in slim black heels sauntered up behind Mister Holmes, eyes never leaving her smartphone. No one made any move to stop her and she seemed content to be ignored.

"I'm sure you would," Mister Holmes said with the slight hint of a condescending sneer. "But I have quite a personal interest in this matter and would prefer to oversee that the best people get put onto this case." His eyes flicked over to Bond then, and as if deeming him unworthy of interest, shifted his focus back to Mallory.

Mallory seemed unsure of what to say, and Bond felt privileged to witness what could only be a monumental moment in history where Gareth Mallory was left with his mouth open like a fish out of water.

"Sir, he says that he'll begin investigating immediately," the brunette said, fracturing the silence into even more jaded and sharp pieces of ice. "He requests the security footage and access to Q's computer."

Mister Holmes gave a pinched smile that bordered on the edge of smug. Though Bond wondered idly if that wasn't a perpetual state for the well-dressed politician.

"Excuse me, but in case you weren't aware, this is a matter of  _ national security _ ," Mallory stressed. "Our Quartermaster is the best computer hacker the world has seen in fifteen years -"

"Twenty, actually," Holmes sniffed.

Mallory continued, undaunted. "If he becomes compromised at all during this unfortunate turn of events, we risk putting the entirety of Great Britain at the mercy of his captors. Not to mention the MI6 secrets that reside in his head are worth a pretty penny to most of the enemies of the Crown!"

Holmes did not seem perturbed by the information, in fact, if anything he seemed to be bolstered by Mallory's visions of doom and gloom.

"And of course you would like him returned in a timely fashion, by which means I suggest employing my services and my contacts. If you refuse to cooperate I will take this matter before the Minister of Defense and still retrieve your Quartermaster before any of your operatives come close."

Bond felt as if he'd just witnessed a session of Parliament unfold before his eyes. The seconds on the clock ticked away - every second less time spent in the search for Q was a waste, in his mind.

Mallory sighed. "If I refuse, will you have me replaced as well?"

"It can be arranged."

Mallory took a deep breath and closed his eyes. Bond waited with baited breath. He didn't trust this haughty man in the custom suit. In any other situation, Bond felt they would have been kindred spirits with his refined air and confidence, but his loyalty to Queen and Country dictated his actions and this man was jeopardizing not only the safety of his country but also the safety of his Quartermaster.

And all current disagreements aside, Bond still considered Q to be his friend.

"So be it," Mallory caved. "You have MI6 at your disposal and our full cooperation." Holmes opened his mouth but Mallory quickly cut him off. "On one condition." Holmes seemed taken aback but let the head of MI6 finish. "You take Bond and use him during any and all parts of the retrieval."

Holmes now paid attention to James. He didn't seem to seize him up, but rather take a calculated look - as if arranging him into his already formulated plans. Holmes presented a hand to Bond, which he took carefully.

"Mycroft Holmes. I would say it's a pleasure, Mister Bond, however given the circumstances I'm afraid that pleasantries must be put aside." His hand was soft but his grip was firm. Bond's image of a squirming politician began to shift ever so slightly. This was a man who knew power, needed power, and was driven by power.

His apparent distress at the missing Quartermaster seemed entirely out of character. Bond could only wonder as Holmes gave a politely cold smile to Mallory, inclining his head, before turning to the brunette who must have been his assistant.

"Very well, inform him we have acquired a second party for the return of the Quartermaster and we shall be arriving shortly," he said without a second glance at Bond. The two began their exit.

Bond hastily glanced at Mallory who only shook his head in a defeated fashion. Without another word, James took off after Mycroft Holmes wondering exactly who it was that could bring down such wrath from on high for his Quartermaster.

And deep in his mind he wondered if he shouldn't have apologized the previous night, standing in the shadows with his battered Walther, feeling conflicted over his attitude towards Q and yet still feeling justified in his right to his privacy.

If this all went to hell, Bond knew that he would never get a chance to make up his mind either way.

\---

Q woke to the feeling of cottonmouth and the irritating chirp of his wristwatch alarm. The room around him was dark, but there was soft sunlight filtering in from an obviously heavily covered window. The light was barely peeking in from the bottom edges of heavy black brocade curtains.

Q moved to turn off the alarm but discovered to his chagrin that his arms were tied behind his back around a chair.

There was a loud bang from behind him and a blurry face moved into view. All Q could see was reddish brown hair, five-o-clock shadow and the pale tone of skin. They took his glasses, he realized.The man moved around, shuffling papers and Q heard the distinct click of a safety being disarmed on a hand gun.

"I suppose that's supposed to frighten me?" He asked, sarcasm dripping heavily from his words. It seemed that when he was truly feeling irritable, nothing could stop him from ignoring social politeness. Then again, being kidnapped tended to do that to a person as well. Somewhere in his mind, a little Sherlock voice called him an idiot for worrying about his attitude.

There was a harrumph noise from the other side of the room, and more shuffling.

Q nodded. The alarm on his watch ended.  The man turned to face Q. Well, Q assumed he was facing him. His body turned in Q's general direction. Q resisted the urge to roll his eyes.

"You look so much like him, you know," were the first words out of his kidnappers mouth, and Q felt his stomach bottom. He knew those words too well. The accent was premier English - prim and proper to the t's. The words, however, would have given away the man's identity no matter how he said it.

Everyone always said that he looked like Sherlock.

Q steeled his nerves. Whoever had him, knew his relationship to Sherlock. His mind began to shift from MI6 plots to his older brother and the enemies associated with him. A cold chill settled into his chest. There was only one his mind could supply that was despicable enough to kidnap an MI6 agent to try and hurt Sherlock.

"So," he said smoothly and cooly, "I take it you know our friend  _ Moriarty _ ?"

With that one word, his captor lunged and with a sickening crack, the pistol handle connected with Q's skull.  With no time to think, his world was once again black.


End file.
